


Sestina for a Sleeping Lover

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Drama, First Kiss, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-04
Updated: 2004-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the final battle, Albus finally gives in to temptation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sestina for a Sleeping Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2004 run of the ADXSS Buggering Bee. Challenge: _The great Albus Dumbledore gives in to temptation."_

Infirmaries smell of illness in the dark,  
that sour tang of night-sweat, blood, and pain.  
There is no comfort in the night—no light.  
No peace, no cool and kindly matron's hands  
to promise everything will soon be right.  
My single candle flickers and I say:  
"My darling boy, my dear. Hush, hush, I'm here."  
He does not stir, so deeply does he sleep,  
blind to the world behind his shuttered eyes.  
I touch my fingers to his lips. So cold.  
So pale. He sleeps, so pale, for he has bled  
for me. And for his blood, he has my love.

In dead of night, I've called him thus: my love,  
wi'faith that word would never leave the dark.  
By day, I wooed him only through my eyes,  
and in my mind, for him, shed tears and blood.  
But now, I may yet touch him with plain hands  
and straighten out his blankets, tuck them here  
and here. And fancy that I've soothed his pain  
and gentled him within his healing sleep.  
I watch his face by flickering candlelight,  
and hope that he will not be caught by cold.  
"You must get well, my precious friend," I say,  
"and when you are, we'll talk and set things right."

I know this—I was wrong, and he was right,  
and wounded pride may not be saved by love.  
He has forgiven more than I can say  
and taken blame right out from both my hands.  
No more, I say, no more. Not now, not here.   
I shall admit my error to be dark—  
—shall make amends for all my dear boy's pain.  
His noblesse has won justice for the Light,  
though hero's welcome for his deeds was cold.  
And though he's shadowed in the world's eyes,  
I pledge aloud to sign my trust in blood  
should he but surface now from where he sleeps.

But he does not—so lost is he to sleep,  
his face more peaceful than a face has right  
to be. I cannot help but touch him here  
on pale brow and conjure strength to say:  
"Do I, my dear, dare hold your slender hand?"  
and take, do I, his slender hand with love.  
His very touch—it thaws my heart so cold  
and heals in me some unknown pain.  
He's far too thin, his bones so very light,  
like muscle, marrow, drained along with blood.  
But he is handsome to me in the dark,  
for I imagine him with lover's eyes.

Oh, what a sight he'll be to these worn eyes  
when next he rises from his restful sleep.   
"My sleeping beauty wakes!" in jest I'll say.  
Away with lukewarm words and touches cold  
and eyes a mute reflection of the dark.  
No silence, anger—no more fear or pain.  
So fine—each night will be as this one here  
—so fine. With tender words and needful hands,  
I'll worship his white skin by pale moonlight,  
and well convince him of my willing love.  
My boy. I'll pleasure him as is his right  
and will not rest until his joy is bled.

...a morbid thing to say, "his joy is bled."  
I mean it not, but memory haunts my eyes  
and ears. "The only way..." is what he said  
that day. All Hallow's Eve, so bitter cold.  
And walked at Harry's side with wand in hand.   
His eyes did sparkle madly, bright with pain  
and not once did my old heart beat 'til here  
I saw him carried after fall of dark.  
And in his wounds, saw that I had his love.  
He begged me not to leave until he slept—  
—I kept my word, steadfastly at his right.  
And never left his side 'til dawn's first light.

Oh careworn face, so lovely in that light,  
a fascination fleshly and of blood.  
"I'll take you far from here," I whispered then,  
though he stirred not, so deeply did he sleep.   
I dreamed of places where we might make love—  
—of sun-drenched coves and hidden forests dark.  
Someplace where we might find surcease of pain,  
where I shan't shiver through the winter's cold  
and he shall proudly stand up at my right.  
To Rome, perhaps, or Paris shall he say?   
What light, I wonder, might shine in his eyes  
when I lay down our future in his hands?

His hands—how long I've ached to touch these hands,  
and stroke his skin with care. So soft and light  
are my caresses now, and with my eyes   
I drink his awkward grace. And softly say:  
"Would I be such a fiend to touch you right  
upon your pale throat? You are so cold   
and I do burn to smooth your hair so dark.  
And may I press your slender hand right here—  
—where beats my heart so strongly with my love?  
You know not how for you I've wept and bled,  
And after such a lengthy wait, you sleep  
and leave me throbbing with such wanton pain."

A pain so sweet, yet still I call it pain.  
For years I've ached and kept myself in hand.  
So young, so young, what god could call it right  
to _want_ and cry his name into the dark.  
To pluck a seedling struggling t'ward the light.  
Now that I see him as a man, he sleeps  
and holds my passion hostage thusly here  
between his parted lips so fair and cold.  
Consent is hidden there behind his eyes—  
—desire to take it rushing through my blood.  
It would not be a theft, but act of love  
to wake him with a kiss—what would he say?

"Awake," I whisper—"Awake," I say.  
"Awake, my dear, and let us slake our pains."  
My Severus is a feast before mine eyes,  
a golden-lit vizier by candlelight  
who does not stir, so deeply does he sleep.  
And knows not that I smoulder in the dark  
for charms unknown, untried. To have him here—   
—warm breath against my cheek, as is my right.  
To ward against the ghosts of war, so cold.  
To raise new life, so warm, with pleasured hands.  
I wish to hear the cries he makes, full-blood.  
"I'll make your body sing for me, my love."

"I'll make your spirit weep for me, my love.  
I'll take you 'til we cannot speak," I say.   
"And only then shall we two rightly sleep  
together." And I kiss his slender hand.  
It's then he stirs—I swear, no trick of light.  
His left hand moves to brush against my right.  
I ghost my palms against his veiled eyes  
and smooth his blankets so he'll not wake cold  
and pray he'll not awake to yet more pain.  
The candle still burns gently in the dark—  
—I grasp it in my hand to warm my blood.  
Shall he delight at eager hands pressed...here?

Beneath the sheet, his tender belly, here?  
A pale expanse that I could gladly love.  
"Was that a smile on your lips?" I say.  
"Or merely darkness dancing with the light?"  
The hour is late, and weary grow my eyes—  
—perhaps I dream his cheek a-flush with blood.  
Forsooth, I've spent more time here than is right.  
He does not stir, so deeply does he sleep.  
"But oh, one boon before I leave your hands,  
one boon to nurse me through my love-struck pain."  
One kiss, just one, to warm our lips so cold.  
One kiss to stir our blood here in the dark.

His dark, sweet lips are ripened, firm and cold.  
So light a soul, so brave and wise and right  
for this time here, and for my empty hands  
to hold and ease their pain with kindness bled.  
"I'll pull the sheet above your eyes," I say,  
"to warm you, love." While Severus soundly sleeps.


End file.
